NOW LIVE! Today's the day you meet your new best friend. You don’t have to leave Wolfy behind... In 'Pets & Sidekicks' your companions level up with you!

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Message: <blockquote data-quote="Lazybones" data-source="post: 1262940" data-attributes="member: 143">Chapter 85“Sheesh, this place is depressing,” Mole said.  “Why spend so much time here, when there’s a whole wide world full of interesting things just outside that door?”Arun’s only reply was a grunt, as he scooped up the remaining swaths of gravy from his plate with the heel of his biscuit.  The dwarf was clad in a simple wool mantle, looking a bit out of place without the familiar presence of his steel armor about his frame.  His hammer was at its accustomed place at his side, however. “You know what?  You’re just a big grumpus,” Mole said.  Arun lifted an eyebrow but didn’t respond to the bait, so Mole spun around on the bench and faced out into the room. There wasn’t much to see.  The dwarven tavern, situated below the surface of the street outside, was plain and functional, with massive wooden beams supporting the low ceiling.  The place was virtually empty, with only a pair of dwarven craftsmen over by the hearth and the tavernmaster behind the polished wooden bar, cleaning massive crockery mugs nearly as thick about as the gnome’s body.  “Now that you’re done, we’d better get going,” Mole said, glancing over her shoulder at Arun.  “Shouldn’t keep the others waiting, especially since this errand is for your benefit.”She turned back and so didn’t see Arun’s reaction, if there was any.  But she smiled to herself—she enjoyed baiting the dwarf, but at the same time thought warmly of the old curmudgeon.  After all, she owed him her life.The door to the steep stairwell leading up to the street opened, and a trio of dwarves entered the tavern.  By their finery—neat but functional, like the tavern itself—they were likely merchants, gold dwarves by the deep earthen tone of their skin.  Unlike Arun, all wore long, rich beards, that of the oldest streaked through with silver, and tied with a dozen small golden bells that tinkled slightly with his movements.  The elder merchant’s eyes scanned the common room with approval before alighting upon the table where Mole and Arun sat.  “I thought this were a dwarven tavern,” the merchant spat, in thickly accented Common.  Mole leaned back against the table.  “Oh, my mother was half-dwarven,” she chimed, sounding utterly credible despite the contrary evidence offered by her appearance. The old gold dwarf regarded her doubtfully, but finally turned away and started toward the bar.  “Dwarven ale,” he said in his own tongue, pulling off leather gloves and slapping them down on a vacant table.  “The strong stuff.  Tis been a long road, and we could use a taste o’ home.”The bartender nodded and started filling steins.  One of the old merchant’s companions had unslung his pack at the table chosen by the leader, but the other lingered a moment, staring at Arun with cold, beady eyes.  “Been livin’ among humans long... takin’ their likin’ to the razor then?” he queried, his words thick, as though he chewed each one off a bit before spitting it out. Arun met his gaze squarely.  Though he didn’t reply, his eyes were like cold iron, and when Mole glanced back, she saw that his hands were tight against the edge of the table, as though hanging on for dear life. Sensing a difficult situation, Mole naturally decided to intervene. “Welcome to Cauldron!” she said expansively, popping up and crossing to the dwarf, offering her hand.  “I think you’ll find the hospitality here much to your liking... there’s something for everyone here!”The dwarf ignored her, still staring at Arun.  “Be that I know ye?” he growled.  “Yer of the Rift, that’s no doubt.  Southern spur, the Electrum Deeps?”Arun stood, the bench scraping back loudly against the floor.  “Nay,” he said.  “Must have me mistaken for someone else, friend.”  He took up his hammer, and started around the table in the general direction of the door.  The dwarf merchant’s companions came over to join him.  “No, I be certain, now,” he said.  “Tough to be forgettin’ the likes o’ you, ye beardless coward.”Arun stopped as if poleaxed, his mouth tightening in barely suppressed rage. Mole, who did not speak dwarven, did not understand what was being said, but she could read the tension that had gotten thick enough to cut with a knife.  “Um... perhaps we’ll just be going...” she hazarded. But the dwarf merchant was having none of it, and in fact was clearly getting as angry as Arun.  “Yer still gots the temerity to be wearin’ that symbol, then?” he said, gesturing curtly at the icon splayed across the paladin’s chest—the hammer and anvil of Moradin, the chief deity of the dwarven pantheon. The merchant’s companions looked at their friend curiously.  He reported, “This be Arun Goldenshield,” he spat.  The old merchant nodded, the movement causing the bells in his beard to tinkle slightly.  “Ah.  I heard about the troubles in the Deeps.”  His eyes were sad, a contrast to the anger in those of his younger companion.  “I have no quarrel with you,” Arun said, starting once more toward the door.  Mole, familiar with the dwarf’s mannerisms, could see that each step came only with difficulty, and she could sense the conflict within her friend. The young merchant stepped before him, blocking his way.  “Yes, flee, coward,” he said.  “And stay out of this place.  This be a tavern for dwarves.”Arun did not respond, but Mole stepped forward, indignant.  “Look, fella, I don’t know what your problem is, but you should show at least a little respect.  Arun is a great hero, a paladin of your head-honcho forger god, and he’s slain many evil foes—I know, I was there.  So lay off, eh?”The dwarf merchant turned to her.  “Your ‘friend’ should have told you the full story, seems like,” he said, his Chondanthan accented but understandable.  “Did he tell ye, that he’s an exile, driven out from his people, never to return on pain of death?  That his cowardice allowed enemies of the gold dwarven people to walk free, to threaten our wives and our children?”Mole looked at Arun, whose face was a stone slate.  “I trust my friend, and whatever he did, I know he had a good reason,” she said with conviction.“Bah,” the merchant retorted.  “He’ll fit in well with you surfacers, with your weak stomachs and ‘tolerant’ ways.  Get out of my sight... unless you want to do something about it, coward?”For a moment Mole hoped that Arun would; she wanted to see this smug jerk taught some manners.  The gray-bearded dwarf was hanging back, with that sad look still on his face, but the other young one—he seemed barely an adult, by the look of him—looked equally eager for a bit of trouble. But Arun only turned away, and the dwarf laughed.  That was it for Mole.  She stepped forward to confront the rude dwarf directly.  Even though he was short even for his kind, he was broad, and muscular—easily several times Mole’s weight, no doubt.  He met her approach with a look of derision.  “Well?  Get out, I said.”Mole responded with a single lengthy sentence.  While she didn’t speak dwarven, she’d picked up a few of its more creative curses, and in the sentence, she managed to insult the dwarf, his family, several of his more distant ancestors (one of whom, by implication, had apparently been a goblin), and finally that part of him about which most males are rather protective.  The dwarf responded rather predictably by flying into a rage, and reached out to grab the gnome with his thick, muscled fingers.  His intent was clear in the look of fury blazed across his face.  His fingers closed upon empty air, however, as Mole darted forward under his reach, coming up alongside his left hip.  She’d drawn a leather purse from the pouch at her belt—jangling with the weight of numerous coins—and as she passed the dwarf she smoothly spun and slammed the improvised bludgeon into the dwarf’s side.  The impact, hitting the dwarf off-guard, drew a grunt of pain from the merchant, who staggered awkwardly to the side.  Already off balance due to his lunge, he stumbled and went down. The dwarf’s young companion came forward to help, but Mole suddenly sprung into the air, her magical boots carrying her up almost to the level of the rafters above.  As the dwarf looked up at her with an almost comical look of surprise on his face, the gnome’s boot shot out, catching him squarely across the bridge of his nose.  The dwarf stumbled back and likewise fell, blood pouring from the broken appendage.  The old dwarf stood his ground, refusing to get involved.  But the first dwarf, the one that she’d struck with the purse, was already getting back to his feet, and even as Mole heard him and turned to face him, he drew out a handaxe from his belt.  The elder dwarf saw him and shouted something in dwarvish, but the younger merchant, his ego and body both bruised, his rage unslaked and demanding satisfaction, hurtled forward, the axe coming up threateningly. But it was arrested as Arun stepped in, and captured the merchant’s wrist in an iron grip.  “Enough,” he said.  The dwarf struggled for a moment, but then his eyes met the paladin’s, and he saw something there that gave him pause.  He shuddered, then nodded.  The old man took him into custody and the two groups of combatants drew apart, each wary of the other. “I think it’s time that we left this place,” Arun said, turning wearily and starting toward the stairs.   Mole followed—after pausing to stick her tongue out at the fiery-tempered young dwarf merchant.</blockquote>

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